


The Night Before

by mmmuse



Series: Moments from Poldark [1]
Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types, Poldark 2 (TV 2016)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8002417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmuse/pseuds/mmmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ross Poldark is bound for trial at the Bodmin Assizes for wrecking, assaulting a custom's officer, inciting a riot and murder. The seriousness of his circumstances beginning to settle within him, he returns home to Nampara one last time before he is to surrender into custody. Will he seek the only consolation he desires and knows is within his reach?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Before

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of what I imagine will be a number of "missing moment" fics that spring to mind as we embark on season 2 of Poldark. Obviously, there are spoilers held within, so if you do not want to be spoiled for the show, stop now and come back after you've watched.
> 
> A first draft of this piece was previously posted in two parts on my poldarkmmmuses tumblr blog. Find me there if you would like glimpses into all drafts from S2.

The sun made its way towards the horizon as he stood along the cliff side. Would it be the last time he had the chance to look at the Cornish sea he loved? His less-than-optimistic visit with Dwight had left him worried. More worried than he’d ever reveal to his friend, of course, however, as the day for his trial in Bodmin approached, the fear he’d kept walled off behind thick granite had begun to chip away at the mortar. Wrecking. Inciting a riot. Assaulting a customs officer. Murder. Preposterous, he knew this to be true. Clearly it all had been orchestrated by that miserable bastard, George Warleggan.

Ross ran a hand along his jaw, a gesture meant to soothe. This time, it only made him more agitated and unsettled. _Home,_ he thought to himself. _I need to be home, at Nampara with Demelza and J—_

The obsidian pit of grief opened under his feet as it did each time he thought of his little girl, Julia. He’d trod along this same cliff side only a week and a half before, her impossibly small casket digging into his shoulder. The sharp, biting pain of it had sustained him along that walk, a stark, visceral reminder of the agony he’d felt inside. The sharpness had not faded since that horrible day when he’d held his child in his arms as she took her last, tortured breath. The loss of her impacted him as profoundly as an awl struck into wood, splitting it irreparably along the heart. It had amplified in unimaginable scale the moment he’d seen the realisation dawn in Demelza’s eyes, felt her frail body quake as she wept against his chest.

They both recognized they had been forever changed, no longer the people they had been when Julia was alive. And yet, the resilience of his wife continued to amaze him. He remembered Demelza telling him, just the other day, that things would get better by and by. And how he’d told her it was something he thought to himself each day, and every day he failed. Would that he could believe it to be true.

There was a part of him that wondered why he wasn’t putting up much fight over the charges, the pending trial. Was there a part of him, deep and hidden with his heart that welcomed the oblivion death would bring him? For in death, he would no longer be required to feel this despair.

He shook himself. _Go home, man._ Blinking the tears from his eyes, he turned and walked to Darkie.

It wasn’t until he rode into the yard that he heard Demelza playing the spinet. He stopped for a moment, a portion of the weight of his heavy heart lifting as he pictured her slender fingers moving confidently across the keys. He dismounted, stabling and tending to his horse, the rhythmic strokes of the curry brush a balm for his mind. Darkie seemed to appreciate the gentleness of her master’s actions, offering Ross a soft whicker when he’d stopped to lean against her broad neck.

Ross entered through the kitchen, walking softly so that he might quietly observe his wife for a moment. It was one of his favourite things, watching her as she went about her daily affairs. Kneading dough with Jinny, knitting by the fire…he closed his eyes as the memory of her breastfeeding their infant daughter bloomed vivid and bright in his mind. He shook his head again, harder this time, as if to dispel the vision from his brain, if only for a moment. One moment, just to give him time to see his wife once again.

The song Demelza played was slightly mournful, well befitting his mood. She played it with skilful delicacy, and he marvelled once again over her bright, quick mind. She’d taught herself to play after only a few lessons. He stood in the doorway for what felt like an eternity, his soul drinking in the sight of her, wreathed in light from their candles and the waning sun seeping in through the parlour window. Memories of her in this room flitted through his mind: the early days, wearing Prudie’s hand-me-downs large enough to wrap thrice around Demelza’s half-starved frame; serving him her first pie, the flavour so succulent he could almost taste the thyme and ham on his tongue; gowned in a silk dress the colour of copper’s patina, blue-green as her eyes. At a time of mingled heartsickness and desire, she’d been a woman, willing and desiring under his hands, his lips, and his tongue. She’d been his wife, playful and sensual, mistress and helpmeet, penitent with the realisation of her own, unwitting part in the destruction of their livelihood.

What had he said the morning after they’d lain together the first time? She’d grown into his life in a way he had hardly realized. And now, three years later, he could never have imagined his life without her.

The brightness of her Titian hair outshone that dwarf star that fed their planet. How long had it been since he’d run his fingers through it…had lost himself in its sweetness? Would he know her once again before he had to leave her? He ached for her, but she was only a week out of her sickbed, where she’d almost died. Her porcelain skin – which had been white as bone during her illness – was just now starting to show the warmth of colour in her cheeks.

 _Hold her,_ he thought to himself. _Enjoy the nearness of her while you can, and be content in whatever is given._

He stepped into the room. “Who’s this fine lady?” he asked teasingly, his voice deep from lack of use, or something else. She turned, smiling and his heart eased. “And what has she done with my wife?”

“Judas!” she said, returning to the keys.

“Oh, there she is,” he said, approaching her seat. He’d chuckled under his breath, the sound strange to his hearing, but welcomed nonetheless. He placed his hand on the back of the chair, a finger’s breath away from those silken strands he loved so much. “For a moment I thought I’d lost her.”

“Why?” She looked up at him with coquettish charm, chattering on about something, but he barely heard her, his eyes drinking in the curve of her cheek, the spark in her blue-green eyes, the arch of her russet brow.

 _How beautiful she is_ , he mused, _and so young_. “Clearly I needn’t worry about you when I’m gone,” he teased, his heart hammering at the thought of another man in her arms. He may have been drunk and angry at the Warleggan ball, but he hadn’t failed to notice the pride of peacocks all but fighting for her hand. “You’ll have a line of suitors from here to Penzance.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it was the truth.

“So I should hope,” she murmured demurely. He smiled down at her, covering her hand with his. She clasped it, stroked his thumb with hers before bending her head and tenderly brushing her lips against his olive skin. It made his throat tighten yet he swallowed hard, willing himself to keep the smile on his face. She raised her eyes to meet his. The teasing light that had been in her gaze was fading, as was his smile.

She stood, lacing her fingers with his, and led him to the stairs.

~*~*~*~*~*

Demelza tidied the parlour for the third time, unable to be still . Ross had been gone most of the day, having muttered something about business that needed attending. He’d been a man of action ever since returning from Truro that awful night less than a week ago. She’d never been so glad to see him as she had that night, walking through their bedchamber door into a room far too quiet to be borne alone. She’d clung to him, still weak from her illness, from unimaginable grief and worry.

His hands had circled her waist. They’d been chilled from the long walk he’d made from town, the coolness  seeping through the fabric of her dress, stays and shift. He’d been so solid and strong despite the chill, in body and words, doing his best to assure her that the charges were preposterous and there was nothing to fear. She did, though. If George Warleggan were involved, she had every right to fear. 

They were now less than twenty-four hours away from his departure for Bodmin Gaol. And she wanted him home. The scent of the rabbit stew she’d made special drifted from the kitchen, and the sour cherry pie she’d made for pudding cooled on the sideboard. All of the things she knew he loved, right down to the brandy they’d saved from the last stash Jud had brought from Wheal Grace.  _ What he hadn’t consumed _ , she thought sadly,  _ that day he and Prudie were thrown off Nampara _ . 

Jud and Prudie, and then… A haze of grey seemed to envelop Demelza whenever the loss of Julia boiled up from the cauldron of despair she’d done her best to keep sealed since Ross had come home from Truro. Not that he’d minded when she’d had to weep against his broad chest, relying upon him to keep her upright. Her grief was omnipresent, revealing itself most often when she stood quiet and idle, remembering. 

As she was doing now. She suspected the reason why Ross had spent more time at Wheal Leisure than he had at home was because of the deafening silence that filled Nampara. Mealtimes were spent with barely a word shared between them. More often than not, Ross would come in, filthy and near exhaustion, grabbing some bread or a piece of cheese before closing himself off in the library. And it was only the night before that she’d found him slumped over his desk, a glass of brandy untouched at his elbow, so deeply asleep she could not rouse him. They had very little time left before he was to leave, possibly for the last time. 

The silence of the house began to swamp her. “Enough, now,” she said aloud, setting her dust rag onto the settee. Her eyes rested on the spinet, the smooth wood gleaming from the polishing she’d given it earlier in the day. The corner of her mouth lifted. If there was anything that would ease her heart and mind now it was music.

She’d promised herself to learn how to play during that first fateful visit from Verity. When she’d mentioned this promise to Ross, he’d surprised her by arranging for lessons. She’d caught on to the note values and staffs, the clefs and the timing signatures very quickly and was now playing more complicated pieces of music by composers such as Bach and Mozart. She sat, rifling through the sheets of music she’d collected, choosing one she’d been working on before she’d fallen ill and began. It was a mournful piece, made even more so as she was still only learning it. But as time passed, she’d gained enough confidence in her abilities to attempt the assigned time signature. From time to time, she would glance out the parlour window as she played, hoping to see a glimpse of Ross on Darkie so she could greet him in the yard. 

Leave it to him to sneak around the back way. “Who’s this fine lady,” his voice rumbled from the doorway. Her stomach jumped a little, and she turned to see him looking as handsome as ever, his hat in  hand. “And what has she done with my wife?”

“Judas,” she grinned, barely refraining from snorting with laughter.  _ Fine lady indeed.  _ They’d bantered a bit, an air of flirtation simmering between them. She had to force herself from betraying her thoughts when he’d said she’d have suitors lined up for her hand once he was gone. The prospect of a world without Ross Vennor Poldark was enough to make her lightheaded and faint. But she played the game, murmuring some coy response and then raising her eyes to meet his. He smiled, a bit sadly, and she kissed the back of his hand, glad not to be looking at him for a few seconds, tasting his skin. 

It made her yearn for him as much, if not more, than she’d ever done. There was a time in the first days and weeks of their union where they’d not been able to have enough of one another, the newness bringing fevered explorations of what delighted them both. As their hearts had opened freely, what was once frantic had become relished. All of that changed six months prior to Julia’s passing,  the result of an unlikely chain of events the genesis of which lay – very unwittingly – at Demelza’s feet: her abetment of Cousin Verity’s elopement with Captain Charles Blamey.

Verity’s brother, Francis, had forbidden his sister from ever seeing the man again, the second time such an order had been cast down upon the couple. When the truth was learned, Francis mistakenly blamed Ross for interfering and, as a result, revealed the names of the investors in the Carnmore Copper Company, Ross’s newest and most promising venture, including many whose fortunes were held at Warleggan Bank. It had only required a few choice, delicately worded warnings from George to several of these men that had caused the business to fall into bankruptcy. And while Ross had not explicitly instructed Demelza not to encourage Verity’s romance -- in fact, he’d expressed his wish to remain neutral on the matter -- he’d warned her not to meddle in affairs that didn’t concern them. 

It had taken several weeks before they’d managed to find a way past the sharpest edge of the discord between them. He’d touched her in the night, wordlessly pulling her into a tentative embrace that had ended with the two of them gasping into the curve of their shoulders. However, she’d known it would take longer to rebuild the trust he’d once had in her, longer for the need they’d once had for one another to return to the state it had been before that fateful day. They’d only begun to make positive strides in the right direction when the putrid throat had swept through the countryside, nearly claiming her in the process.

Demelza looked up at him, watching as the playful spark in his eyes clouded. His brow furrowed for an infinitesimal moment, as the truth of their situation appeared to settle within him. She knew he still thought she was too fragile, too weak from her illness to turn to her for the consolation they could find in each other’s arms. She knew better. She stood, laced her fingers with his and led the way to the stairs.

“Demelza,” he whispered as the steps creaked underfoot. His fingers tightened against hers. “We don’t hav—” 

“—Ross.” She turned to find him standing on the stair behind hers, his hazel eyes dark with concern. She kissed him to stop his words, cupping his face in her hands, a shuddering moan vibrated through his mouth to hers. Their tongues touched, bodies trembling against one another’s as his arms circled her hips to draw her close. She sighed as her fingers slid into his thick hair, raking his scalp with her nails. 

He broke their kiss, resting his head against her chest. After a time he drew back to look up at her. “My love,” he murmured, “you’re certain?”

“I am, Ross.” She stroked his beard-roughened cheek, the rasping texture against her palm making her smile. “All I want this night is to be with you, as we once were. Grant me that, won’t you?”

He nodded.

They helped one another undress in silence, taking the time to press kisses to the patches of flesh exposed until they stood naked, their bodies dappled in candlelight. He was so beautiful, olive skin still tanned from the  summer spent working outdoors. He’d spent hours in the mine with his men, swinging a hammer until she thought he would break. His upper body had thickened from his labours, and the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunched under her hands. They nuzzled one another, something she’d learned from him in their time together; how the erotic caress of the tip of the nose or the brush of lips against the back of the ear, the mouth, the jaw – or elsewhere – could make one breathless and needful. They exchanged soft, nibbling kisses as they danced across the floor towards their bed. She was suddenly reminded that she’d never had that dance with him at the Warleggan ball, but decided she was enjoying this intimate loure in the privacy of their bedchamber all the more because of it. 

His eyes, changeable with his moods, were near black and stared into hers.  His strong thighs brushed hers as his hands stroked the length of her waist to her buttocks, his fingertips running along its cleft. The heavy length of his erection pulsed against her lower belly. Liquid heat welled within her, leaving her woman’s flesh slick. Her pulse beat heavily between her legs and her nipples tightened, brushing against his chest hair. 

She’d missed touching him, and missed his caresses along her body as well. His hands had coarsened over the months he’d spent down the mine, their callused palms gently brushing along her back and sides like beach sand under her feet. Her fingers drifted to caress some of the places she favoured to touch: the soft, sensitive hairs along the nape of his neck, his collarbone, his cheek and chest. She’d been timid to touch him after they first married, nearly disbelieving the fact she was wed to him, a man she’d loved longer than she’d realized. She  _ had _ to touch him now, to remember everything she could about this man who’d saved her, had raised her up from poverty and made her his wife. 

He laid her on the bed, settling atop her with a rumbling purr. She sighed between kisses as he parted her thighs with his body, the heat of his cock nestled against her mound. He bent his head, his teeth nipping along her throat. She arched her neck to grant him easier access, her toes curling at his mouth’s assault on her skin. She rocked her hips, his cock slipping between the lips of her sex. He growled, pressing hard against the swollen head of her clit, making her whimper. 

“My love,” he murmured against her ear, his hand streaking down to cup her breast.  “You fit my hand, so perfectly.” He kissed her, hungrily, tweaking the nipple between his thumb and forefinger before sliding down to take it in his mouth. Her fingers automatically slid through his hair, drawing him closer. The tug of his mouth was delicious, yet it also remind her of…

“Ross,” she whispered, touching his cheek to capture his attention. He raised his eyes as her tears fell, tears so unwanted in that moment. 

“Demelza?” he asked, moving up to gather her close. “What is it?”

“Julia,” she rasped. She felt him tense against her, his eyes widening as he registered what had happened. “You couldn’t have known, I didn’t realize it until…”

“Oh God,” he said, clutching her tight. He brushed a kiss on her lips. “I’m so sorry, love.” 

He shifted his body weight from hers, and she felt bereft of its pressure. “Ross, please,” she implored him, swiping the back of her hand across her cheeks. “I need you. We need each other tonight. Please.” Her hands were tight on his shoulders, pulling him back down atop her. She kissed his throat, the rasping edge of his jawline before drawing his head down to hers. She kissed him with everything she had within her for him: her love, desire, friendship, sorrow, and fear.

“Demelza.” He thrust within her, her body stretching to accommodate him after so long a time apart. She sighed with pleasure, wrapping her legs around his waist. They ebbed and flowed together, settling into a rhythm familiar to them both. His guttural sighs and murmurs, deep and dark, filled with nearly incomprehensible words dragged her deeper into their joining, until her senses narrowed into what was happening in the moment: the texture of the tip of his nose as it nuzzled against her neck and ear; the stroke of his mouth and tongue as they moved along the column of her throat; and the scent of his hair, pipe smoke, and the sea. 

And the rhythmic strokes of him, deep within her. Her breath quickened as her body trembled with spiking need. She answered his need stroke for stroke with a desire that equaled his. Her hands streaked down his back, nails sinking into the flesh of his buttocks. 

“Judas,” he groaned. His mouth found the flesh near her collarbone, using his tongue and teeth to work a bruise into her skin. 

“Ross,” she moaned, gasping from the thrill of it. She was close, so very close and she circled her hips against him, urging him on. He growled again, his hand tightening on her hip, intensifying his movements until she tumbled into oblivion. She tightened around him, gasping sobs against his throat. He froze atop her, his muscles quivering as he reached his peak. She felt the pulse of his release deep within her as he relaxed, his body’s weight pressing her into the bedclothes. 

“I love you, Demelza,” he whispered, breathless in her ear. 

She smiled against his neck. “I love you, too, Ross,” she murmured. She tasted the sweat on his skin, felt it under her palms as she stroked his back, caressing the muscles she’d admired for so many years. He  _ had _ to come back to her, simply had to. She willed herself to believe he would soon be back, once again in her arms, to help her pick up the pieces of their life. 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to those of you who liked, reblogged and commented on the drafts posted on my poldarkmmmuses Tumblr page and Twitter. I hope you like some of the revisions I've made since then -- I feel it makes the story much stronger. 
> 
> Massive thanks to my beta, Rainpuddle13, for her help and guidance. *hugs you*


End file.
